


Luckiest Man Alive

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, but mainly polyamory let's be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: Wat curses as a larger splinter smacks into his cheek and Geoff gives him a concerned look. Roland flinches as the tip of the lance narrowly avoids him, caught by Kate.“Why do we love him?” Wat whines.The other three can only shrug.





	Luckiest Man Alive

Sometimes Roland wishes that Will had not been his first kiss.

He always feels treacherous afterwards, since there are no lips he knows so well as Will’s, but sometimes. Sometimes it would be nice to tell the men in the pub about his _actual_ first kiss, not his second.

Roland, whenever it comes up, tells the men about the girl in Calais, when he was still barely a child and Will a scrap of flesh and sharp bones. Will, hanging off a fence post and vibrating with energy, had pointed to her.

“Bet you I can kiss her an’ you can’t,” the child had said.

Roland had turned to his friend and raised an eyebrow, a movement he would quickly get used to. “You could never,” he scoffed.

“Fine.” Will jumped into the street, grin splitting his face, and that would get familiar, too. “You get to carry all Sir Ector’s armour tomorrow.”

“You’ve not won yet, boy,” Roland protested as Will scampered across the square, bobbing and weaving between carts and legs with a great deal more agility than Roland could have mustered.

He leaned back as the smaller kid applied for the girl’s attention with a theatrical bow which Will thought made him look knightly, and chuckled to himself along with the girl. It became clear quite quickly, however, that she was indulging a child and unwilling to bestow a kiss upon a grubby, unwashed boy. She had laughed at Will, ruffled his hair and span him to face Roland again. Will traipsed back sullenly past a flower cart, scowling at Roland’s laughter.

“You’ve not won yet neither,” the boy had retorted. Roland had ruffled his hair again and left him to attempt to calm the straw nest which he insisted on calling hair.

Ducking and dodging, bumping into the minimum of shoppers, Roland had crossed the square. On the way he had snagged a daisy from the flower cart - he’d always had nimble fingers - and presented it nervously to the girl. She had smiled, blushed, and he had opened his mouth and nothing had come out. He had managed to stammer out a greeting before she plucked the flower from his loose grip and pressed a soft and gentle kiss to his lips. If he had been unable to speak before, it was nothing to now.

The girl had tilted her head, scrunching her nose and smiling like he was an adorable puppy, and Roland had felt the blush sneak up the back of his neck. “Tu es mignon,” she had declared. “Ton ami? Il est tres courageux, mais je vous aime mieux.”

Roland had returned to Will triumphant, but he hadn’t liked the kiss nearly so well as he’d liked Will’s face when Roland had carried his share of the armour anyway.

And as much as he wished he could be honest and call that his first kiss, he hadn’t liked any part of it so well as he’d liked the week before, when Will had hugged him tight, skinny arms wrapped around his neck, and pressed thin lips to his. It was nothing more than that but it was the first and, for a long time, the best kiss Roland ever had. Even though they had been seen, even though Sir Ector had pulled them aside and told them that it wasn’t proper, even though they hadn’t kissed again for almost five years after that, it was still Roland’s first kiss, and he wouldn’t wish it away, not really.

* * *

Throughout adulthood they’d had Something. A resolutely undefined Something, that involved sometimes kissing and a lot of cuddling up in the tent they shared whilst Sir Ector and Wat competed to snore loudest. Wat knew, the knight didn’t, and both left them alone.

And if Roland and Will had hoped that Wat knowing would change things, then, well.

It had been this way since it had begun, and Roland knows that what they have is only a Something, and certainly not an exclusive one. So he’s not surprised when he opens the tent flap and finds Will under the naked man they’d picked up in the road a few days before, groaning sinfully and sending bright red up the back of Roland’s neck.

He must have made some kind of noise, because Will spots him then. “Roland,” he manages, and Chaucer twists his neck to look back at the man in the doorway.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Roland says through gritted teeth.

“Roland,” Will says again, this time a request that he not be cross. “It’s okay, he knows about us.”

“And that’s okay, is it?” Roland snaps, not looking at the bare expanse of Chaucer’s back. “Hell’s bells, Will, that’s hardly small talk, is it?”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Chaucer drawls.

Roland frowns, but there is no trace of mockery in his open, expressive face. “Piss off,” he snarls and storms out.

He settles in front of the fire, blissfully empty of Wat, and angrily glares at the embers. How dare Chaucer...be...like that, asking if Roland wanted to…

Time passes, but he hardly notices; when Chaucer sits beside him, he is startled into the knowledge that the sky is much darker than it was when he sat down.

“Will told me you weren’t...exclusive.” The poet squints up at the stars, thinking. “So, why are we angry?”

“None of your bloody business.” Roland prods a log with a stick, and the shower of sparks startles the truth from him. “I’m not angry. I’m scared.”

Chaucer tilts his head, and waits.

He sighs, having come to far to stop now. “I’m not...like him. Or you. I don’t want...I’m happy just kissing, and I don’t want nobody fannying about doing…” he gestures expansively. “...any of that.” Roland doesn’t look at Geoff, but the niggling fears in the back of his mind find a voice anyway. “Will doesn’t mind. But if you stick about - and he wants you to, mind - then he won’t want me.” He stares into the darkness, pushing against the blush on his neck.

Chaucer is silent for a while and Roland takes a moment to appreciate it. Then he nods, and hums. “What if I were to kiss you, Roland?”

Roland blinks, slowly. “Wh- why?”

Geoff laughs. “Questioning Will’s taste? He likes you well enough.”

“He’s an idiot boy and doesn’t know no better,” Roland responds absently, still frowning in confusion.

That makes Geoff throw back his head, laughing. Roland permits himself a half-smile. “Would you mind, though? If I kissed you?” Geoff is very serious now, and Roland swallows, nervous and, despite himself, excited. “If you could believe that I like you, and would like rather to kiss you, here in this pool of golden firelight which illuminates a handsome man; a kind one, who cares for his friends and is fair to naked strangers and whom I would like very much to kiss?”

Roland tilts his head, looking deeply at Geoff for any sign of humour, and finds none. After a brief pause, he surges forward, one large hand on the back of Geoff’s neck before either of them can have second thoughts.

Geoff doesn’t kiss like Will, but the change is not unpleasant. There is more force to Geoff, and the kisses last longer, until Roland feels like he’s drowning; Will flits from kiss to kiss like a butterfly, attention never truly held. The kiss deepens, and while Roland is enjoying it, anxiety bubbles up to the surface, pushing them apart. “No more’n kissing, understand?” he says gruffly, and Geoff rolls his eyes.

“Your virtue is safe with me, fair maiden,” he says, smiling and leans back in.

Roland, generously, allows him one whole kiss before digging his fingers into Geoff’s ribs in vicious, tickling vengeance.

* * *

Will isn’t in the camp and Wat is snoring as Kate rhythmically beats out steel. They’re back around the fire, frowning into its glowing depths. “I’ve never seen him like this with a girl before,” Roland says, releasing the thought all in one breath, and feels lighter for it.

Geoff nods, and props his arms up on his knees. “He really likes her. God,” he sighs, “he loves her.” Roland nods morosely. “Has he ever said that he loves you?”

Roland nods. “I never know if he’s serious.”

Chaucer hums agreement. “He’s serious about her.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I do not know, Roland. I do not know.”

Sparks float up between them and dissipate into the inky black. The nights remind Roland of Chaucer now, of these talks and the kisses that intersperse them, of the writing that fills his parchments til they are nearly as black as the heavens above them.

“I’m serious, Roland.” He looks up and directly into Geoff’s sharp, icy eyes. He can’t quite look away, and doesn’t doubt his severity. “I’m serious about us, even if Will drops us for some skirt.”

Roland can’t make his throat work. He throws out his arm and Geoff grabs it, tethering their fingers in a tight tangle, and seems to get the message anyway.

* * *

Will runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. Roland hates being the pragmatist. “I don’t know, Roland. I don’t want to stop seeing you two, but… I’ll talk to her about it.”

He makes himself accept this glimmer of hope and holds Geoff’s hand with white knuckles as they sleep.

* * *

He goes to send a message to Jocelyn and is ushered into a room containing two distinctly ruffled ladies. Roland says nothing, but he knows.

The way their hair is mussed, their awkward postures, the vague aura of guilt; they all bring to mind Geoff and Will pretending that they hadn’t started without him.

Message delivered, he deliberates in the doorway. He offers a grin and gestures behind him to the outside world. “Better get back, Geoff’ll be waiting.” Judging by the way the ladies’ shoulders relax, they got what he was desperately trying to tell them.

“Do not tell Will,” Jocelyn says as he turns to go. Christiana is blushing, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair, but Jocelyn’s back is straight, neck long and proud. “I love him, you know.”

“I know, my lady. I won’t tell no one, but-” He turns to look at them properly. “At some point, he might tell you something, and I ask you tell him in return.”

With that, he leaves them to it.

* * *

Kate. Roland loves Kate, but not like that, not really. She and Wat know of The Arrangement, the capitals clunking into Roland’s brain every time no matter what he does, but she’s made her position clear.

She likes them, but she likes her husband better, God rest his soul.

So Roland doesn’t kiss her affectionately, even as a friend, because he of all people knows boundaries.

So he smiles his love at her, and hopes she gets it.

So he’s a little surprised when thin, muscular arms wind around his back while he’s fussing over the cart and her sharp face presses against his shoulder-blades.

He turns to see her and she turns with him, laughing. Roland turns the other way comically, then holds her hands and leans over as if looking behind him. Kate, playing along, squeals, eased off the floor to balance upon his broad back, and Roland laughs, setting her gently back down.

She wriggles under his arm to snuggle against his chest and he wraps his arms about her shoulders easily. Kate presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, and rests her cheek on his shoulder.

“I thought you weren’t up for all of this.”

“I’m not,” she mumbles, voice muffled by his chest. “It’s just nice to feel loved sometimes.”

Roland squeezes her tightly and presses gentle kisses to her hairline until he feels the curve of her smile through his shirt.

* * *

Wat pretends to vomit when he overhears Geoff telling Roland, ever so seriously with light eyes dancing, that he loves him. Roland laughingly tells him it’s because Wat’s _jealous_ , and Wat curses them both with a reddened scowl and storms off, fists swinging compulsively.

As a consequence, he misses Roland echo the sentiment, and they miss Wat’s face, expressions warring for dominance.

* * *

“Your big sodomite panic doesn’t suit you, Master Fowlehurst,” Geoff says, voice dry and tired as he bumps shoulders with Wat, who stops compulsively wiping his mouth.

“I’m not - not - shut up, alright?” he snaps, nails pressing angry silver crescents into his palms and ears turning pink. “I didn’t ask to kiss Will.”

“Aye, we figured that,” Roland says tiredly, shifting the broken lances in his arms.

“But if you could tone down the disgust for your present company, we’d appreciate it,” Geoff adds.

Wat frowns crossly, allowing them to overtake him, and chews his lips thoughtfully. 

* * *

Will face is flushed, lying with his head in Roland’s lap and drunk off his face. Wat’s distinctly red, face blending seamlessly into hair, and pouring more and more beer down him. Geoff stands, and Roland gazes past the fire and into the sky to look at him.

The poet bestows upon them all a beatific smile, and Kate snorts at his unsteadiness. “Today is truly a glorious day, and this evening truly one worthy of celebration. For not only is Will assured of the love of two glorious, handsome men-” Roland laughs and Wat protests in a voice so slurred that it is barely comprehensible. Will giggles and kicks Geoff’s ankle, pressing a kiss to Roland’s palm. “-but also the love of a lady, who-”

“-for some reason doesn’t want to be with more than one man who smells of horse and doesn’t wash enough?” Kate interjects sweetly, making Roland laugh and Wat fall over amidst drunken complaints.

Geoff pauses. “Yes. The Arrangement can, however, continue, because she’s seduced her handmaiden and they’re as much filthy sinners as we are.” He beams down at them in triumph.

“Hear, hear,” Roland grins, and Will presses his own grin into the other’s stomach.

Geoff sits back down, stumbling into Wat’s space. He isn’t given much time to move, however, before Wat appears to make a decision and grab his collar, tugging him close. The kiss breaks, having seemingly stunned both parties into silence. Roland almost falls over backwards laughing and Will is snorting in his lap.

“Well, you can shut right bloody up, alright,” Wat snaps, pushing past a stunned Chaucer to smush his face drunkenly into Roland’s, who holds the other man’s chin to guide them into something more accurately resembling a kiss. Wat grins and bestows the same treatment upon Will, who responds more haphazardly.

Eventually they roll out of Roland’s lap, prevented from continuing into the fire by Kate’s boot. Chaucer decides that his clever mouth hasn’t been up to enough recently and crosses to pick up Will and Wat, gently separating them. “We have business, which cannot be resolved here, gentlemen.” It takes a moment, but his meaning makes it through their hazy brains and the two brighten.

The three begin to head for the tent, but Roland stops them with a cleared throat. “Give us a goodnight kiss, then. Been waiting on Wat for bloody years.”

Will beams and kisses Roland enthusiastically, and then Wat, as if to confirm that he can do that now. Geoff kisses him next, gentler but smiling. Wat presses kisses to his cheeks, forehead and mouth, murmuring “I’ve been waiting too, you know.”

“And whose fault is that?” Kate teases gently. She relents to Will’s eagerness, holding out a hand which the three men kiss with great, overexaggerated aplomb. Finally, they manage to leave for the tent.

Roland leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky and then at Kate out of the corner of his eyes. She spies him, and smiles. “This has turned out alright, hasn’t it?” he says, part statement, part question.

Kate nods. “It’s not what I expected of widowhood,” she says, smiling, and he laughs softly. “But yes. It’s turned out pretty much perfectly, I should say.”

* * *

There is, however, proving to be done.

Wat curses as a larger splinter smacks into his cheek and Geoff gives him a concerned look. Roland flinches as the tip of the lance narrowly avoids him, caught by Kate.

“Why do we love him?” Wat whines.

The other three can only shrug. 

* * *

Roland dreams of the house they could have had together, had they not been semi-heroic and vindicated.

Had they run, he thinks they would have gone back to France and north, to Lorraine or Avesnois or somewhere, where the shame of London is more easily forgot. But in his dreams, they stay in England.

Not far from London, but where there is green fields and forest, they would have a small cottage with a farm and a little forge for Kate. They’d keep animals and curl up close in winter as Geoff told them stories and it would be like they were the only ones in all of the world. Will’s father could join them, and Roland’s mind populates the dream with little half-Will-half-Jocelyn boys and girls whom he loves more than himself.

Or sometimes the dream is of a pub; Geoff entertaining, Wat and Will laughing about something. Christiana dancing with drunken admirers as Jocelyn laughs at them, rocking her baby to sleep. He and Kate behind the bar, giving out pints and throwing out brawlers.

Sometimes they are all squeezed into the Cheapside rooms where John Thatcher lives, helping the old man and just about paying their way. Will would be delighted to be home and Roland would say something stupid and sappy and oh so painfully true about being home wherever all seven of them are.

Roland likes these dreams, but looking at Sir William on horseback, or at Kate forging armour, or at Wat and Geoff wrestling in fur and heraldry, or at Jocelyn and Christiana plaiting each others’ hair in their fine gowns, or even at him, grinning uncontrollably every time Will wins, he has to admit: he’s better off where he is.

* * *

Will and Jocelyn’s wedding night sees Kate, Christiana and Roland sitting in the lady’s sitting room. Kate sketches armour designs and beautiful swords onto scraps of Chaucer’s parchment, and then chubby knights on horseback onto the stories he’s been working on recently. Christiana and Roland are carefully embroidering tiny, delicate flowers onto a sleeve for Jocelyn.

It’s very peaceful, and his careful sewing only earns him praise here.

Christiana reminds him of his first kiss, years and years ago, and he sews her a little daisy onto a scrap of linen. His voice fails him on presentation, but she just smiles and gives him her sharpest needle in return. 

* * *

Will curls tighter around Jocelyn as soon as soft dawn light falls upon his face and he feels himself waking up. It’s a habit he’s long had; ever since he was a boy, he’s been convinced that, if he tries hard enough, the day will not break and he can sleep some more.

Jocelyn rolls over in his arms to face him and strokes some hair out of his eyes. He opens them, smiling at her morning sleepiness, and kisses her gently. She smiles back and cuddles up to him.

“Are you ready for today, Will?” she asks as the sunlight spreads further and further across their bed, pooling on the sheets like honey.

He hums. “As long as you are there to watch, I cannot lose, my charm.”

Jocelyn smiles against his chest. “Be safe.”

Will presses a kiss to her hair. “Always.”

Christiana lets herself in quietly. “My lord, you must prepare for your joust. Your squires are impatient.”

Will lifts his head to look at her in amazement. “Really?”

She shrugs. “Wat is. Roland is asleep.”

Will laughs. He kisses Jocelyn gently and extricates himself from her to stretch and dress. Christiana curls up on Jocelyn’s other side and, when he’s ready to leave, Will kisses them both softly for luck and leaves them to wake slowly. “Good luck, Will,” the ladies call after him.

He trots out into the early morning mist, the cold opening his lungs and waking his brain. Will ducks into the tent to find Geoff yawning into a bread roll and Roland shaking water from his head, glowering at Wat. Kate instantly presses some armour against his chest, considers it for a moment and then removes it before he can entirely process the action. Wat throws him some bread.

Tearing into it, Will grins at Roland. Cursing the cold water, Roland finds his padded shirt and shoves it over the knight’s head.

“You’re up against Sir Thomas Berard,” Geoff says, stretching. “He’s a vicious bugger but not all that good. _If_ he hits you, it’ll hurt.”

“If. Right,” Will says, trying to eat as Roland stuffs his errant limbs into his under-armour.

“Turn towards him, it’ll confuse his aim,” Wat suggests, tossing Roland a glove. Will gives up on his breakfast and allows Kate and Roland to strap him into his armour.

When her work is done Kate returns to the forge, busier than ever thanks to his patronage and demonstration of her good work, but not before she’s stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Good luck, William. Don’t scratch my armour, now.”

He grins. “Surely it’s mine now.”

She smiles sadly, eyes dancing with amusement. “Never.”

He twists in the armour as she leaves, checking for potential problems, stopped only by Geoff who holds his gauntleted hands carefully. “Good luck, Will,” the poet says, gazing intently at the knight. “Live up to my entrance and you can’t go far wrong.” Will laughs, pressing his forehead against Geoff’s. They kiss fiercely, breaking off only when Wat decides it’s his turn.

Wat kisses him even more intensely, attempting to outdo Chaucer. Will can hear Roland laughing, but distantly, drowning in the moment. Eventually they stop, breathing heavily. “Good luck, Will. Do us peasants proud, yeah?”

Geoff heads towards the ring, Wat chasing after him to engage in some competitive snogging somewhere quiet. Roland pushes himself off the table and goes to stand before his oldest friend and longest love. Will holds out his arms for Roland’s approval, allowing him to check the armour again. He only really feels ready to joust when the other man nods his permission.

“You’ll do,” Roland says, and Will steps forward to wrap his arms around Roland’s neck. It’s a hard, armour-plated hug, but Roland’s grip is tight and secure and Will feels safe. He presses his lips to Roland’s and it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” Will breathes, unsure what for.

“Good luck, William Thatcher,” Roland whispers.

They catch up with Wat, Geoff and Kate, horse ready for its rider. Will leaps into the saddle with such flair that the crowd cheers already and Roland rolls his eyes. The knight waves up at his wife and her girlfriend, high up in the stands with his father.

Roland looks up at Will. “Are you ready? Berard will hit hard.”

Will grins down at Wat, Roland and Kate and then out into the ring. He squints against the early morning sun at Geoff, balancing on the dividing barrier and orating wildly, and at Jocelyn and Christiana. Will feels the sun on his face and the love of his people and beams. “I’ve had six good-luck kisses, Roland. I’m the luckiest man alive.”


End file.
